It's Hard to Die
by Liliththestormgoddess
Summary: <html><head></head>Stream of consciousness from Hannibal, contemplating death.</html>


It's Hard to Die

by Liliththestormgoddess

**Summary**: Stream of consciousness from Hannibal, contemplating death.

**Rating**: K+

**Warning**: Lots of angst :)

**A/N:** This idea came from the song Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks, hence the title. I love the song, and what immediately sprang to mind were the Team's thoughts during the trial – facing death. However, this story seemed to write itself, and this is what it turned into! The ending is something that sort of demanded to be written, something I'd not originally planned. But I like it :)

Hannibal had faced death before. So had the rest of his team. They were not strangers to it.

But this was different.

This death he couldn't look in the eye. He couldn't plot a scheme against it, couldn't take it by surprise, couldn't disarm it, couldn't turn the tables, or break the odds.

He couldn't do a damn thing; they couldn't do a damn thing, and it infuriated them.

Hannibal couldn't count on his hands and feet the number of near-death experiences he'd been through with the team. And that didn't include 'Nam.

He loved his team like they were his sons. And in a way, they were. They were pretty much the only family they had. And every time he saw them in pain, his heart ached.

When Murdock was shot – saving Hannibal's life – they might as well have put a bullet in his own chest. Murdock lying there, bleeding, and the MPs on their heels. For a while, Hannibal had wondered if he was going to make it. Things had looked so bleak, the edges of their lives fraying, and he had to keep them in place. The team was frazzled, and Hannibal had been cool and calm. He had to be. He was in charge, and he had to take charge. So no one saw the turmoil that raged inside him during those hours. But he still felt in control. Useful. He devised a plan, it worked, and Murdock lived.

His mind lingered on their impromptu trip to Bad Rock, Face driving erratically with a fuming, injured BA in the back. But even then, he had felt in control, calm, listening to BA and Face banter, knowing he was going to be just fine.

And the trial. The one event that scared him to no end, no matter how much he assured himself that they'd all come out alive. Sitting in that cell, devising plans to make a break for it, and seeing it all end in tragedy in his mind's eye. He still couldn't forget BA's screams as Face fell – even though it was all in his head. It was a reminder of what he feared. What could have happened. He lay there, listening to Face and BA bicker about last meals, Face babbling on. Hannibal knew it was a distraction of the situation. Something Face did. His mouth could disconnect from his brain in a situation where he felt overwhelmed.

But one of the worst close calls he could name was the disaster at the Italian restaurant, Villa Cuchina. Knowing that it had taken them longer than it should've to realize something was wrong, while all that time Face had been lying on the floor in the kitchen, bleeding to death, gave him a terrible cramp of guilt. He couldn't describe the terror when he spoke to Murdock on the phone, and he confirmed that Face was down. He hadn't a clue what condition his man was in, but he tried to be calm. Walking into the kitchen, taking in everything, and then his eyes settling on Face lying there, feverish and restless, muttering and bleeding. The blood. He would never forget that. And the smell. Pizza and blood; pizza and death. He hadn't eaten Italian since.

The waiting. In the emergency room, after finally getting Face out of the restaurant, was the worst. Murdock paced, muttering his own stream of gibberish, nearly losing his grip on reality. BA sat on a chair, completely unmoving, and expressionless. And Hannibal had stood tersely in front of the operating room doors, fiddling with the cigar he couldn't light, until it was nothing more than a mangled mass in his hands. In the end, Face had fully recovered. He'd fought back, and he was still here, with them.

He found himself back in the present, in the front seat of the van. It was dark, and the van was quiet, filled with sleeping passengers. Had Hannibal been sleeping? He didn't know. He'd been tired a lot lately. He'd also been known to doze off for a bit, too.

Three months.

They'd given Hannibal three months to live. Three months to get his affairs in order, do all the things he'd ever dreamed of doing.

Face had immediately taken up the role of his finances, getting his accounts settled, and planning extravagant trips. He had thrown himself completely into this, Hannibal knew, partly to make him happy and partly to get away from the harsh reality of the situation.

When they'd diagnosed him with cancer, the doctor had explained to him that at the rate it was spreading, he would have approximately three months to live, without treatment.

That was almost two years ago.

Hannibal didn't want chemo. He wasn't going to sit in a hospital bed and wait to see if it made any difference. He didn't want to be weak. He wasn't going to sit in a hospital, not for three months. And, despite protests from the team, he'd denied treatment. He wanted to live out the rest of his days to the fullest, thank you very much.

He remembered standing outside the hospital, his team, his friends, his family, giving him looks. They weren't pitying looks, and they weren't quite sad, nor were they fearful. They understood his choice. They accepted it. Even so, he was quite surprised when Face spoke first: "What do you want to do first, Hannibal?"

Since then, the team had been to Europe five times, been on seven different cruises, and seen nearly every show on Broadway. Hannibal joked once to Face that if he kept living this long, they'd be broke very soon. Face had just grinned, but he didn't need to say that there was no better way he'd want to spend their money.

Hannibal knew they were hardly in danger of going penniless. Face had saved a lot of money over the years, from every job, and put it away in different banks and accounts and invested some. When Hannibal had inquired to the condition of his bank account, he could've been knocked over by a feather.

He was going on three years.

Three years, and no sign of the cancer. The doctors had been baffled, but Hannibal thought he knew how he had been cured. Because he had one thing that medicine didn't.

The A-Team.

The A-Team was not known for sitting there, and being pushed around. If there was a problem, they fixed it. It was no different with an unseen enemy. Hannibal grinned. Perhaps he was being illogical. But still, he always felt stronger when he had his family with him.

Again, he was jostled out of his thoughts when the van stopped. Through bleary eyes, Hannibal noticed they'd stopped at a gas station. BA looked over at him and said softly, "I need gas" before getting out and proceeding to fill the tank. Hannibal was feeling hungry, and he turned around to ask Face and Murdock if they wanted anything from the convenience store. He saw them, sleeping peacefully, Murdock's head resting on Face's shoulder, and Face's head on Murdock's, and decided against waking them. He smiled, and got out of the van, telling BA he was getting a snack.

He loved the extravagant trips. Sure, they were nice. But nothing beat the good ol' road trips. Nights like these, well, they were the best.


End file.
